It's Not ALL Bad
by regrette rien
Summary: Sherlock and John are on their way to investigate a crime scene, and John is in an epically bad mood, due to being dragged out of bed at unholy hours, yet again! Can Sherlock help him out of it? Read on, dear reader, read on. Unabashed smut.


Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in updates to anyone who has been reading my Sherlock!Rentboy story, I'm trying to convince myself that focusing on real life is a good idea for the next few weeks. However, the plotbunnies have different ideas, and so, I've written this. There is more Sherlock!Rentboy on the way – I've already written more – but I've promised myself to work on my assignment before I edit the next instalment. In the meantime, I do hope you enjoy this little fic of mine (written in an afternoon, I am inordinately pleased to brag)!

This particular story takes place in a universe where Sherlock/John is established, but relatively new.

Warnings: Sexytimes. Obvious kink is obvious.

xxRegretteRienxx

Another night, another murder investigation. It seemed to have been an eternity since John could remember having had a decent night's sleep. He wished, irrationally, that criminals would be a little more considerate of others' circadian rhythms, and commit their crimes during normal waking hours. What should have been a smile at the ridiculousness of this thought actually appeared as a grimace – he was too miserable to achieve real amusement. Every limb ached from overuse while running around solving the inordinate number of cases they had received over the past week, and lack of sleep, and he could neither stretch nor curl up to catch a moment's shut-eye while in this taxicab. He rolled his shoulder in order to gain some relief, and groaned almost-contentedly at the satisfying crunching noise the action produced. Sherlock looked at him sharply, and John knew that the detective was resisting the urge to comment that John's physiotherapist had advised him to cease this habit. _Well, sod her,_ John thought bitterly. It was near-impossible to follow her advice when cracking his shoulder continued to be one of the few sources of physical relief available to him at times.

Apart from these general aches and pains, which would normally have been enough to bring his mood down somewhat, the bitter London winter was in full force tonight, penetrating even the supposed shelter provided by the taxi, and John was glad that he'd had the presence of mind to grab his winter coat as they'd darted out of 221 Baker st. It was slightly longer than the one he favoured during the rest of the year, and certainly warmer. Though on this occasion, he mused, huddling further into it, praying to disappear, apparently not warm enough.

He felt Sherlock's inquisitive gaze fixed upon him, but was not in the mood to talk, unless it was about solving the case, and a more imminent return to a nice, warm, cosy bed. With a sulky huff, he resigned himself to the unpleasant cab journey, but would refuse to admit that he pouted. Children pouted. John Watson did not. _Doctor _John Watson sure as hell did _not_ pout, ever. Regardless of what a certain consulting detective might joyously accuse him of.

His attention was drawn, after a moment, by Sherlock inexplicably removing his left glove. It was ages until they would reach the crime scene – _typical_ – and it wasn't as though the temperature was such that his hands would be getting too warm. Sherlock carefully folded the glove and tucked it into his left pocket with a delicate motion that belied his masculinity. He then produced an unmarked spray bottle from his right pocket, and thoroughly sprayed his ungloved hand from fingertip to wrist, with the substance that John couldn't quite recognise. The smell was familiar, though… _Why did he only remove one glove?_ John's brain bugged him. _Why not both of them?_ John was about to question the rationality, when Sherlock murmured in a conspiring manner which piqued John's interest: "John, can you please tell me, what exactly do you think that is?" John followed the line indicated by Sherlock's still-gloved finger. Something on the floor? "Where?" John asked, to clarify, leaning forward a little in order to try and see better. Swiftly, Sherlock's left hand snaked down the back of John's trousers, and one inexcusably long and enlighteningly slick finger inserted itself up John's arse. Five things occurred to John simultaneously as a result of this: 1. That he should have put a belt on when he'd been getting dressed to leave the flat, 2. That Sherlock, despite his inability to keep a tidy flat, was ridiculously well-organised for having _spray-on lubricant_ in his pockets (John would have dwelled on the implications of this piece of information, had his brain been in any way capable), 3. That he was a grown man and, as such, really truly ought not to fall for such simple ruses, 4. That Sherlock was a grown man and, as such, really truly ought not to be using such simple ruses in order to get into John's pants, and 5. What the _fuck_? John thought the final point was the most pertinent to express. "Wha-cknglgnyh" he choked out, unable to articulate terribly well with Sherlock shoving his coat collar into his mouth. Sherlock leant close so he could see John's expression better in the dark. "Ow." He whispered, pointedly. John was clenching quite firmly in his surprise, meaning that Sherlock's finger was effectively, and painfully, trapped. John took a deep breath and made a conscious effort to relax.

"Ok?" Sherlock affirmed, and John nodded, briefly. Sherlock removed John's coat collar from his mouth, and John expressed his discomfort in an urgent whisper. "Your hand, Sherlock, is _so _fucking _cold_!" Sherlock chuckled under his breath. "I'm very sorry." The apology actually carried with it a note of contrition, and as if proving that he really held some remorse about inflicting the coldness of his fingers on John, Sherlock caught John's lips with a kiss. His nose, as would be expected, was also unpleasantly chilly, but John barely noticed this, as Sherlock's lips were deliciously, beautifully warm, and moist, and inviting. He reciprocated the kiss enthusiastically, and relaxed further, meaning that Sherlock was now able to move his finger, just a tiny bit. John sighed happily when their lips parted, thrills running through him both from pure sensation, and the risk they were taking, doing this in front of the taxi driver. It wasn't as though they were really likely to be persecuted for homosexuality in this day and age, but John was not given to public displays of affection, and he worried what the cabbie's reaction would be if he realised what the two men in the back of his cab were up to. John lowered his eyes, not wanting to risk seeing the cabbie's raised eyebrows in the rear-vision mirror. He suspected that the driver would have seen all sorts in the back of his car previously, but the thought was not exactly reassuring. Biting his lip, he managed to restrict his responses to Sherlock's finger moving inside him to mere gasps: rapid, hitching intakes of breath that surely wouldn't reach the cabbie's ears.

"Ok?" Sherlock repeated, and John realised that this was a new question. He met Sherlock's searching gaze, the man's expression was still steady, damn him, maintaining his composure while John's resolve slowly crumbled. After a moment, it dawned on John what was being asked. _Oh_. He nodded quickly again, and felt the blood rush to his ears – he wasn't used to requesting what he desired, as most of his previous partners had either been overly passive or aggressive. With Sherlock, there was noticeably more give _and_ take. He shifted his weight a little, allowing Sherlock some more manoeuvrability, and a second finger joined the first. John hissed; he hadn't been as prepared for it as he'd thought, but the pleasure quickly overrode the pain. Elegant as Sherlock's fingers were, one of the quirks of human design meant that his knuckles did not line up exactly, and John was just now realising just how erotic that particular feature truly could be. He let out a louder gasp than previously, swiftly biting his tongue as soon as he'd done it, and clenched his hands into fists inside his coat pockets, locking his arms tightly against his body as he yearned to reach for Sherlock, but not daring. He was quickly becoming aware, also, of a well-known tightness in his crotch, and he gathered his hands, still pocketed, to this focal point, to try and subtly achieve some friction. Sherlock's gloved hand was, maddeningly, very relaxed in his own lap, John noticed. A kiss was pressed to the back of his neck, low, where the shoulder began. John trembled at the interplay of sensations, as Sherlock tortured him variously, lovingly, with his tongue and teeth, working upwards to his earlobe, and finally meeting his lips again. He rubbed himself as best he could through the layers (too many now!) of coat pockets and trousers, risking as much hip movement as he dared, still not wanting to draw attention from the driver, but _needing_ to relieve his now ridiculously-straining cock and take full advantage of Sherlock's fingers still working vigilantly away with twists and strokes and too-much-not-enough contact with his prostate. The rhythm had been easily developed, and John was startled when Sherlock whispered breathily, deeply, huskily into his ear, "John…" The single word was so blatantly full of _want_, and confessing desires of any kind was so usually against Sherlock's nature, that it struck John deeply, and he commanded the next kiss they exchanged, which meant his moan at Sherlock slipping yet another finger into his arse was swallowed by the other man's mouth. His hips bucked almost uncontrollably, and Sherlock reached across to hold him still, pressing his weight against John's shoulder. Under any other circumstances, John would've thought it was an awkward position, but right now he couldn't think of anything better. In a sudden burst of passion, he caught Sherlock's lip in his teeth, causing the other man to utter a primal growl that was surely illegal. When they finally broke off this kiss, gasping desperately, John caught sight of Sherlock's near-black eyes, pupils hugely dilated, and all the lovelustwantdesiresensation hit him. Barely managing to get his fist to his mouth in time, John came, with a groan, with a moan, but thankfully, thankfully, not a shout.

His body now relaxed, contented, warmed by the flush of blood coursing through his veins, and feeling safe from discovery, John sighed, and Sherlock gradually removed his hand. The sound that John made when the luscious fingers finally exited his body was most vehemently _not_ a whine (_children and animals whine, not me...!_), but he suspected that Sherlock was unlikely to be able to try and embarrass him in front of other people with this information, because at the same time as John _didn't_ whine, Sherlock emitted such a frustrated and angered grunt of pain, that the cabbie actually braked quite abruptly, concerned that his passengers' wellbeing was in question. "Drive on," Sherlock instructed impatiently through gritted teeth, wiping his hand with a wet wipe produced from who-knows-where (_how can such a cluttered individual be so prepared for all circumstances?_ John mused, but suppressed the thought), and replacing the glove in such a fluid motion, that John barely registered it, and he was sitting right next to the man. Sherlock refused to meet John's eyes then, and glared out the window as though the world had wronged him. John stroked his back gently; Sherlock was trembling quite viciously. "What's wrong?" Sherlock whirled on him in such a violent, sudden motion that John couldn't help but flinch. "I didn't come!" John truly believed that sometimes, Sherlock's voice was capable of shattering a diamond. This was one of those times. The venom dripping from every letter was painfully evident, despite the lowered tones of their conversation – still not wanting to reveal too much of the goings-on to the cabbie. "Well, of course – " _you didn't come, you didn't even touch yourself_ John gathered himself enough to be able to resist saying " – we could just stop the cab a bit earlier than the crime scene, and I could help you out with that." he offered, instead, entirely desirous of having the opportunity to share his current blissful state with Sherlock.

Breathing heavily from his arousal, but never making any sound to betray it, Sherlock fixed his gaze out the front windscreen of the cab. John didn't turn to try and see what Sherlock was looking at, knowing that the view had nothing to do with what he was seeing, and instead, the intricate maps of the roadways, footpaths, and conveniently deserted alleyways were unfurling in Sherlock's mind, comparing, calculating, considering, all an impressive skill really, heightened by the fact that his very obvious arousal was probably somewhat on his mind all along. "Left down Newington, please, driver." Sherlock instructed, and John smiled – a real smile, this time – to himself. It seemed that tonight wasn't as utterly dark and dismal as he'd previously thought it was, after all.


End file.
